


hopeless wanderers

by quiettewandering



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jim, Hurt Spock (Star Trek), M/M, Mutual Pining, Professor Jim Kirk, Professor Spock (Star Trek), Slow Burn, Starfleet Academy, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettewandering/pseuds/quiettewandering
Summary: Spock and Jim instantly gravitate toward each other at a serendipitous meeting on a cold San Franciscan beach, unaware that they both are academy professors, and that their paths will cross again. As the reasons for Spock teaching at the academy rather than being in space and Jim's trauma-filled past are coming to light (as well as complicated romantic feelings for each other), Spock and Jim become caught in a deeply troubling Starfleet plot that they have to fight to prevent from happening.[on hiatus until summer 2019]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer."
> 
> -Albert Camus

There is a beach that Jim passes every morning on the way to his classes. The subway whips its way past during the early waking hours. Jim has to lean toward the window, gloved hand gripping the hanging strap tightly and squinting into the morning light, in order to even get a glimpse. He once spilled his coffee over a half-asleep astronomy professor leaning into the turn too early.

It’s only a glimpse, but it’s enough to make something in his chest tug itself backward as the tram whisks away to the academy’s campus, to feel as if he should be on that beach instead of in a classroom.

He’s not sure why, on his birthday of all days, he decides to take an early stop and follow the siren’s call of the beach.

It’s an abnormally chilly spring day; he pushes his gloved fists deep into his coat pockets as he walks against the wind. Winding corners and dead-end backroads bring him to the beach entrance. Apart from the Golden Gate Bridge towering to the right of the horizon, the effect is shockingly lackluster. Being only forty degrees Fahrenheit, the beach is practically deserted. A man unsuccessfully calls for his dog that is strangely and inappropriately excited to be running across a cold beach. A bundled couple is squished to each other’s sides as they brave the wind. A man in a long, black coat leans against a cane as he stands at the tide’s line, the waves kissing the points of his shoes.

It’s chilly, but calming. The sun refuses to peek beyond a few rays from its position behind a grey cloud. The sand is still packed down from the recent rainfall, crunching imperceptibly beneath Jim’s boots as he steps from the concrete onto the beach. 

He used to love birthdays. His mom would make a large deal of it. After Jim had gone to bed, she’d spend a good part of the night putting up streamers and baking so he’d have decorative color and baked goods to wake up to in the morning. Sam would help him blow out his candles, a now-cheeky tradition established at an early age when Sam would pout from all of the attention Jim was receiving that day. Jim’s dad would give him a pat on the shoulder and another one of his old collectible records for Jim’s collection. The last one he gave him was Elvis Presley,  _ Moody Blue.  _

Jim takes a gulp of freezing air to distract his thoughts. The fresh air tingles his lungs. 

He stands at the edge of the waves for an indeterminable amount of time. His first lecture is in three hours, so he is in no rush. He trains his eyes on the small dot of a lighthouse on the opposite shore. 

The man and his dog walk back toward the neighborhood, the man rubbing his hands for better circulation; the couple eventually scurry back toward their car where they’ll undoubtedly blast the heater as high as it can go. The beach becomes deserted but for Jim, and the tall black-coated man. He grins, feeling something of a kinship with him, both of them planted firm against the icy, harbor wind.

Jim glances toward the man. This close, he can see the pointy ears and green-flushed skin; a Vulcan. 

A  _ gorgeous  _ Vulcan, Jim thinks with a shocked stare. The Vulcan notices his gaze and glances his way. Jim catches himself and whips his head back toward the horizon.

He’s staring at the calm sea, wondering how long he can stand there before his face feels completely frozen, when he hears crunching footsteps beside him. A polite, deep voice says, “Excuse me.” 

Jim smiles at the Vulcan who is now a mere five feet away from him. “Hello,” he greets. This being the first time he’s spoken since rolling out of bed at 5 am that morning, it’s a gravelly greeting.

The Vulcan tips his head imperceptibly. “I wished to inquire if this is your glove,” he says, holding a black leather glove aloft.

Jim blinks at it and pulls out his gloved hands out of his coat pockets, holding them up to show. “Don’t think so.”

“Ah.” The Vulcan turns his head to squint at the empty beach. “Being the only other humanoid here, I assumed…”

“May have been the people here before,” Jim offers. At the Vulcan’s blank look, he explains, “The man and his dog. Or the couple.” He laughs, not unkindly, as the Vulcan continues to look confused. “You didn’t notice them, did you?”

The Vulcan’s cheeks flush a darker green. “I must admit that my mind was not in the present moment.” 

Jim smiles. “Mine either.” After a beat, he holds up the ta’al. He fingers are practiced pushing themselves together; he practiced it in the mirror for hours after accidentally offending a Vulcan professor by offering him his hand to shake in greeting. “I’m Jim.”

Spock stares at Jim. “I am Spock,” he says slowly, offering the ta’al in response. “It is curious; every human I have met previously insists on a handshake to show their greeting.”

“Made that mistake once,” Jim says. “Luckily, you’re not my first Vulcan.” 

Spock raises his eyebrow with an incredulous look at Jim’s choice of words. Jim grins back, practically rocking on his heels. He  _ likes  _ Spock.

“So what brings you to the beach?” Jim asks, holding out a hand at the desolate sand and rocks before them. “The warmth, the sun, the refreshing swim?” 

“Meditation,” Spock says, bluntly honest. “I find myself most contemplative by the water.” 

“I can understand that.” 

“And you?”

“Oh.” Jim hadn’t considered his own answer; his own reason for hopping off that tram five stops early and dodging his morning prep duties. He hunches his shoulders as he replies, “To escape, I suppose.”

“An escape would imply breaking one’s bonds to be somewhere more pleasant. Surely a warmer place would have been desired.” 

Jim laughs. “Surely.” He turns his smile to Spock’s scrutinous gaze. “And surely a Vulcan, who prefers the warmth, would opt to meditate by an indoor pool or a fountain in a mall where it’s warmer, rather than on a beach in a forty-degree day.”

Spock turns his eyes to the water. “While it is true that Vulcans are attracted to primarily warmth, I find that I am attracted to a beach in any capacity. If even for the promise of what it brings when the weather is hot again.” He looks embarrassed that he said anything at all.

Jim smiles encouragingly. “That is very true.”

Spock seems to shake himself from his reverie and adjusts his scarf, which is whipping wildly in the wind. “Furthermore, these places you mention are often crowded. I prefer to meditate alone.” 

“Is that a hint I should leave?” Jim asks. 

Startled, Spock says, “Not at all.”

They stand in comfortable silence, the tide coming closer, the waves tickling their shoes. Jim finds it completely strange, and completely wonderful, that he’s sharing such a peaceful moment with a total stranger.

“It’s my birthday today,” Jim says, out of the great blue.

Spock looks as surprised as Jim feels that he even said anything. “I believe the correct human response is ‘happy birthday’,” Spock intones.

Jim kicks his shoe into a pile of sand. “Thanks, but… it feels somewhat like an inherently unhappy day.”

“I regret to hear that. From what I know about human traditions, this is unusual.”

“Yes, it is.” Jim sighs. He turns to Spock. “So, you live near here?”

Spock says, “On the contrary. My apartment is on the other side of the city. This beach is on the way to my place of work; I tend to take an early stop and come here, occasionally.”

“That’s why I’m here!” Jim exclaims. “I kept seeing this beach from the tram; finally, today I decided to just go. A birthday present to myself.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, again; but this time he looks amused. Jim is getting used to reading the emotion beneath the stoicism. “Indeed.”

“Do Vulcans celebrate birthdays?” 

“We do not.”

Jim chews on his lip thoughtfully, staring down at his shoes. “Ah.”

Clearing his throat, Spock says, “But my mother, she... “ He pauses. “She is human.” 

Jim looks up and gapes. “Really? So you’re half-human?”

Spock almost winces. “I am.”

“Why are you looking like someone kicked your puppy, Mr. Spock? I think that’s wonderful. Best of both worlds, right?”

“Kicked my….?” 

“It’s an expression, Spock.”

“I see.” 

Jim hides a grin behind his glove as he puts it to his lips. “What I’m saying is that it’s not a bad thing, being half human. You’re probably better for it, having grown up with two cultures in the household.” 

Spock‘s tone is almost ironic as he says, “Perhaps.” 

“So what was your favorite thing?” Jim asks, skirting away from the obviously touchy topic. “That your mother did for your birthday?”

“She bakes very well.”

“My mom too,” Jim says. “I’d kill for her blueberry cake right now.”

“Your family does not live in San Francisco?”

Jim feels that telltale twist, just underneath his breastbone, whenever he dwells on this topic. “No. My mom is still in Iowa. My brother, he’s… on a starbase somewhere. Can never keep track of him.”

“I see.” Spock astutely avoids inquiry after Jim’s father. “So on your birthday…”

“I am normally alone,” Jim finishes with a twist of his lips. After a beat of silence, he forces out a laugh. “But I  _ do  _ have friends; I didn’t mean to sound like such a sad soul.”

“I do not acquire that impression from you, Jim,” Spock says. The way he says Jim’s name is smooth, like honey.

Jim smiles. “Well… thank you.” He takes the moment to glance at his watch. “I should go, if I’m going to catch the next tram and not be late for work.”

Spock nods; Jim convinces himself that he’s imagining the disappointment in Spock’s eyes. Hesitating only a moment, Spock reaches into his coat pocket and holds out a fist. “I wish to engage in a human birthday tradition with you, Jim. Especially since I find it serendipitous that I found this just minutes before meeting you.”

Jim gapes at him, completely confused. At Spock’s encouraging nod, Jim holds out his upturned palm. Spock drops a small object into it: a green and shiny piece of glass, polished and smooth from years of tumbling in the waves and sand.

“It was illogical to pick it up in the first place,” Spock says, hands behind his back, suddenly looking very stately and professional, like he was intoning orders to Jim. “However, since it is now in your care, I find it logical that I did.”

Jim stares up at Spock, unable to stop the smile from splitting his face in two. “Spock,” he breathes out. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Spock, confounding all that Jim thought he knew about Vulcans, hesitantly and subtly smiles back.

“I’m very glad I met you,” Jim says.

“As am I, Jim.” 

Grinning, Jim offers the ta’al as a farwell. In response, Spock leans against his cane with one hand, his other reaching toward Jim before his hand aborts the mission; lowers. “Happy Birthday, Jim,” he says instead. 

As Jim turns away, he convinces himself that it’s coincidence, an accident, that their gloved hands brush.

The air is cold and biting as Jim quickly steps through the sand back to the tram station. The tram itself is not heated. Jim barely notices; his face is warm from the slight blush on his cheeks, and there’s a warm lightness in his chest where winter once was. 

The small piece of glass even seems to radiate warmth as he clutches it tightly in his fist, refusing to let it go for the rest of the day.   
  



	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I put my heart and soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process."  
> -Vincent Van Gogh

_2 weeks later_

 

Bad moods are illogical.

Spock chants this to himself as he walks down the hallway. It is, more accurately, a dignified limping—if he were to put a name to it. _Tap, clink, tap, clink._ Spock surmises that if anyone heard him coming down the hall, they would mistake him for being half-machine.

He resolutely ignores the sound echoing through the empty hallway, as resolutely as he ignores his illogical ‘bad mood’.

The rain often causes this. This morning alone his briefcase, and subsequently his lecture papers, became sodden from the rain, and a poorly coordinated introduction of the tip of his cane with a curb caused the rubber encasing to rip, resulting in an obnoxiously loud sound when the exposed metal met the linoleum floor of the academy’s halls.

Upon Spock’s arrival to his designated lecture classroom he has determinedly tucked the bad mood into the far recesses of his mind so that it is not a distraction.

There is only one student in his classroom. He expected this. “Good morning, Cadet Lanier,” Spock greets as he walks to the front of the classroom.

Lily turns her head and pushes the thick black hair away from her forehead in one motion. “Professor Spock,” she replies solemnly. Unlike most cadets, she knows not to inquire after his emotional state. “I wonder, if you have a moment—could you examine my answer to this equation? I am not sure if the answer can apply itself to the rest of the method.”

They lapse into their familiar rhythm of the morning: Lily with her hip against her desk, speaking over her coffee mug’s rim, occasionally gesticulating with wide gestures as she explains her findings. Spock sits at the lecture desk, cane propped against the touch-board, listening to her logical problem-solving. The remaining two students of his admittedly small class file quietly into the room, taking their seats at the back. Spock feels the tension caused by the less-than-optimal morning drain from his shoulders.

Spock is standing, ready to begin the lecture at precisely 0900 hours, when the door bursts open. Six loud, unfamiliar students fall through its wake.

Spock clears his throat, but they ignore him, going to the back of the classroom to take their seats. The subsequent students that enter the classroom are also not ones that he recognizes. His original three stare at him with question in their faces, characteristically uncomfortable. Spock observes at least twenty more students filing through the door, taking seats in the large lecture hall. The once-peaceful atmosphere in the classroom pitches to an uncomfortable din. Spock clenches and unclenches his fists to dissipate tension that has worked its way into his arms.

 _It is illogical to have a negative mood,_ Spock reminds himself once again as he loudly clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says. Louder, when no one looks up, “ _Excuse_ me.”

The students quiet down, blinking up at him, surprised by his presence.

“May I inquire what you are doing in my class?”

There are uncomfortable side-glances between students before a blonde cadet in the front pipes up, her hands clasped in front of her. Spock recognizes her from his Thursday Astrophysics lecture. “We switched classrooms, Professor Spock.”

“And who authorized this?”

She looks uncomfortable. “Well—”

The door once again bursts open—Spock wonders how many rude interruptions it can take before it falls completely off its hinges—with a man appearing closer to Spock’s age striding in. He is book-laden and harried and his glasses are dipping dangerously down the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, sorry!” he says in a rush. “I can explain this! Everyone discuss amongst yourselves for a minute, please.” He leans against the desk, dumping the pile of books in his arms. They scatter across the desktop. Spock’s incredulous eyebrow raises higher.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the man says, straightening his suit-jacket and glancing up at Spock. “I’m hoping that—” He stops.

Spock finds that he needs to catch his breath. _Jim._

Jim’s face is morphing into a smile as bright as Spock remembers it being. “You’re the man from the beach,” he breathes.

“You’re the man disrupting my teaching schedule,” Spock shoots back. The illogical bad mood is creeping in the back of his mind, an unwanted visitor.

With a sheepish grin, Jim adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, I’m so sorry about that. A pipe burst in my classroom and we had to find a new room. I saw on the course registrar that your class is only three people, so I was hoping we could negotiate.”

“Where do you suggest I teach, Professor Kirk? The broom closet down the hall?”

Spock’s penchant for humor is often received one of two ways: either by being misclassified as rude, or as being found genuinely humorous. Spock wonders what category Jim will fall in.

He is illogically pleased when Jim tilts his head back and lets out a merry laugh.

“Of course not, Mr. Spock,” Jim says with a grin. “I was going to offer up my office to you. It’s in this building, just a floor up. It’s rather large, since I share it with two other colleagues, and they’re not even there on Wednesdays.”

Spock blinks. “I see you have organized this thoroughly.”

Jim says, coyly, “I may have put some thought into it on the way here. And I can’t very well hang the man who gave me a birthday present out to dry, now can I?”

Spock mentally congratulates himself that his cheeks become only 4.8% warmer from Jim’s statement. “Indeed,” he replies.

Jim withdraws a keycard from his pocket. “It’s office 212. And, uh, don’t go anywhere until I am finished here, all right? I’d love to chat some more.”

Holding the keycard tight between his fingers, Spock adds, “And you will need your key.”

“How’s that?” Jim asks distractedly, shifting papers across the desk.

“I need to ‘stick around’, as you say, primarily for the return of your key.”

Jim laughs awkwardly. “Ah, oh, yes. Astute, Mr. Spock.”

Spock nods in farewell. He grabs his cane, gesturing for his students to follow him. They do not walk any faster than him, as his cane, as per the course, severely hinders his speed. This flares his bad mood into full force.

“Cadet Lanier,” he says to the student walking in stride beside him. “Do you have any information on the professor with which I just had an interaction?”

“Yes, sir,” she says. Her spine straightens from the attention. “His name is Lieutenant James T. Kirk. He graduated on the command track, and was stationed as a lieutenant before his teaching posting here.”

Spock’s lips twitch as he suppresses an indulgent smile. He can always rely on Cadet Lanier to be his walking and talking PADD of information when he cannot readily access his own; especially on the inner politics of the academy. “On which ship?”

“The _Farragut_ , sir.”

As Spock carefully ascends the stairs, resolutely ignoring the elevator and his students’ tentative looks, his mind flips through the facts. The _Farragut_ : many people died during a dangerous encounter with a mysterious and dangerous entity in space. The damage could have been far more extensive if it were not due to the quick thinking of a promising lieutenant, who was one of the few survivors from the encounter. This lieutenant was awarded a commendation of bravery before disappearing from the forefront of the press. Spock cannot believe he did not make the connection before.

“I do find him… odd, Professor Spock,” Lily comments. “He’s a highly decorated officer, even at his age, and yet he chose an academy position.”

Spock stops in front of Kirk’s office, pressing the keycard against the card reader. “A position at the academy is an honored position, Cadet Lanier.” Even as he says it, he finds he doesn’t fully believe it.

“Of course, Professor Spock. I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But it’s virtually unheard of to choose to be grounded from space; unless due to the mental incapacitation, physical injury…” Her eyes flicker down to Spock’s cane; she looks momentarily horrified.

Spock pauses before pushing open the door. If his bad mood were illogical before, he could go as far as to call it an errant emotion: something dark, and putrid, and emanating all from his lame leg.

He pushes it all aside.

“It is of no consequence, Cadet Lanier,” he says softly. She nods at him apologetically.

He leads his students into Kirk’s office. Jim is true to his word: it is spacious, with a round table tucked in the corner and a wireless touch-board that is able to project his lecture notes. As his students settle into their chairs, his PADD chimes from within his briefcase. He glances down.

The words “EVICTION NOTICE” on the email alerts him for only a moment before he quickly exits from his messages application. His fingers fly fast across the screen to pull up his lecture notes, determined to train his mind to the task at hand.

—--

It’s 1.23 hours before Jim's class is scheduled to end, according to Spock’s cursory look at the course schedule. Spock knows that the logical action would be to leave the key card inside Jim’s mailbox in the teacher’s lounge. However, an equally logical thing would be to answer emails here rather than in his own unappealing office (shared with a very excitable, very disorganized colleague). So he waits.

Jim’s desk is clutter-free; one could even go as far to say minimalist. Only a computer and several books litter its surface. Spock pulls Jim’s chair closer to the window overlooking the quad, settling to answer the twenty emails that have come to his PADD in the last hour alone. He ignores the email from his landlord that was sent moments before his lecture. It no doubt is an email informing him that his apartment is forgone.

No email particular catches his attention, apart from the one labelled “Confidential.” To open the email itself requires his code and serial number. Once inputted, a cursory message pops onto the screen:

_Officer Spock,_

_Your presence and participation is requested at an urgent and confidential meeting today at exactly 1600 hours, Bruicks Building, Conference Room C. Further details will be shared at this meeting. Financial compensation will be given for your time. Although it is not mandatory, you were chosen for your specific skill sets and merits, and your participation will be an honorable service to Starfleet, and to the Federation._

_Vice-Admiral Creighton_

Spock leans back in the chair, elbows resting on the arms and fingers steepled. Based on the signature, the thinly veiled command of attendance at this meeting clearly came from high in the ranks. This meeting, that is indicatively confidential and time-sensitive.

Fascinating.

He spends the rest of the 1.15 hours researching any recent incidents involving Starfleet that could possibly require Spock’s skills for this confidential meeting. He’s so immersed in his search that a knock on the door would have made him jump, were he not a Vulcan.

Spock opens the door to Lieutenant Kirk, peeking around a stack of books once again precariously balanced in his arms. Kirk smiles brightly. “Professor Spock!" he greets.

“Lieutenant Kirk,” Spock says as Kirk clatters his books to the desk, “I think it best to inform you that is a strange title to me, since you are a professor yourself.”

Kirk looks sheepish. “I suppose you’re right. Being back at the academy makes me feel like a cadet again, I have to admit."

“I deduce that you have not been back at the academy long.”

Leaning against the edge of his desk, Kirk crosses his arms and smiles. “Not long. Only three weeks, now.”

“I see." Spock hesitates a moment—Kirk's smile is inexplicably distracting—before reaching into his pocket to withdraw the keycard. “Thank you for allowing me the use of your office.”

“Of course,” Kirk says as he takes the key. “It's on me for the disruption of your class in the first place. Don’t worry; I talked to maintenance and the pipe is already patched. Luckily, this place is as efficient as a starship."

“Indeed.” Spock recalls the continuous problems with classroom scheduling, the persistent coding snags on online course pages, and the frustratingly superfluous monthly staff meetings that plague Spock’s life at the academy. He decides to leave Kirk blissfully ignorant until he himself experiences these inefficiencies.

“So,” Kirk says, an air of teasing in his voice, “it looks like our fateful meeting at the beach had some future in it, after all.”

“It would appear so. I was not aware that you are a Starfleet professor.”

“And I, you. It never came up, I suppose.” Kirk taps his fingers against his arms in an inconsistent rhythm. “What was your posting, before this?”

“The _Enterprise_. I was Captain Pike’s science officer."

Kirk’s eyes light up. “That’s a great ship. And Captain Pike is one of the best, I hear.”

“He was a very efficient Captain to serve under,” Spock says neutrally, ignoring an odd pang in his side.

“Wow. That's a great posting. So why..." For the second time that day, Spock's injury becomes the cause of an awkward lag in a conversation. Kirk’s eyes resolutely flicker away from Spock’s cane. “I apologize, Spock. What a stupid thing to ask.”

Spock holds up a hand. “It is of no consequence. I obtained an injury on Rigel VII during an exploratory mission. An academic posting made the most sense while I healed.” Spock does not mention the personal ramifications surrounding this issue—or that the injury itself occurred four years ago, and has stubbornly and mysteriously refused to improve since.

“I am sorry to hear that," Kirk says. Spock surveys how apologetic his eyes look in conjunction with his words.

“It is of no consequence," Spock repeats lamely.

It’s silent for a moment as Kirk stares at the floor, chewing his lip. “Well, an academic posting isn’t all bad. It’s rewarding, actually. Giving back what Starfleet gave us, and all."

“This is why you have obtained a teaching position?” Spock asks.

Kirk visibly tenses. “Uh, yeah. I suppose that it is."

Spock knows that he has tread into a sensitive topic, but he does not know how to retreat. Before he is able to cover his blunder, Kirk says, “Well, I have a lecture to prepare for.”

Spock says, “Oh. Of course." He gathers his papers, feeling the moment stretch a beat too long.

Kirk watches him; seems to soften. “But it was really great seeing you, Spock," he adds softly.

Spock straightens. “Likewise.”

“I hope to see you around—under better circumstances than me taking your classroom from you, of course.”

“I share the sentiment, Lieutenant Kirk." Spock is pivoting to leave when a green flash, catching the light of the setting sun, stops his eye. He is surprised that he didn't notice it before: on the windowsill beside Kirk’s desk is the green sea glass that Spock gave Kirk for his birthday.

Vulcans do not gape, but Spock is rather close to doing so.

Kirk follows his gaze, and blushes. “Oh, yes, uh. Turns out it's a great addition to the office. Got a little decoration in here, finally.”

Bad moods are illogical, Spock knows. But what's equally illogical, and altogether unpredictable, is the way that Kirk's smile seems to make him feel lighter. Spock feels a warmth in his chest as he says, “It is a satisfactory addition to your workspace.”

It's only now, looking at Kirk's dodging gaze, that he realizes the stone is the same color as his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> originally, this chapter was 6k words - hence why I am saying "Part 1" for this chapter. please let me know if this chapter seemed too short, or if it's just the right bite size to get you through to the next Sunday. 
> 
> and, any feedback at all you may have would be really appreciated!!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another."  
> -William James

Routine is the glue that holds Spock's control together. Being exactly on time to events, scheduling every meeting and class and meal and meditation session to the absolute detail, eating the same meal at the same time of the day: that's how Spock keeps careful command of the situation.

So far, his careful schedule has been disrupted by not only a very distracting Jim Kirk, but also the secretive meeting that he was summoned to. He can, unfortunately, feel his control slipping.

He feels that control slipping even as Spock stares at the conference room door, hesitating before walking inside.

If it were not for his suspiciously light wallet, and his nearly empty bank account, he would not even consider attending this meeting. _Financial compensation will be given for your time,_ the email had said.

His cane poised toward the entrance, Spock turns the doorknob.

The room is bare, nondescript. Spock recognizes none of the people around the oval table apart from Vice-Admiral Creighton, who Spock only knows from the orientation he attended when first coming to the academy. Even then, Creighton only offered a few scant and distracted words about professors being “the pride of the academy”, before striding quickly off stage to answer a comm.

Creighton gestures for Spock to sit with a crooked finger; Spock slowly sinks into a chair by the door, leaning his cane against the wall. He avoids the electric-blue, scrutinizing gaze of a man sitting to his left.

The meeting consists of five people in the room, if Spock also counts the overly-curious man and Creighton. The two others are women talking to each other in hushed tones, heads bent toward each other.

“We’re waiting for one more," Creighton announces, fingers still flying over his PADD, “but we can get started. Schedule to keep and everything." He finally lifts his eyes to the group without a hint of friendliness. “Thank you for coming. As you probably gathered from the email, this is both a time-sensitive and dire matter. You were each chosen for a specific set of skills, and for your successful experiences in discretion and secrecy when it comes to sensitive matters of the Federation. If anyone—”

Creighton pauses as the door creaks open. Jim Kirk’s face peers around the door. Jim’s gaze lingers on Spock a moment longer than necessary before stepping more fully into the room.

“I’m assuming I’m in the right place," Kirk says.

Spock notices with fascination at how much lower, how much harder his voice is in comparison to their conversation in Kirk’s office. It’s as if Kirk threw off his cheery disposition like an old coat and donned a greyer, harsher one.

“You are in the right place,” Creighton confirms, "and I assume that future meetings won't begin with tardiness, Lieutenant Kirk.”

“No, sir.” Kirk sits across from Spock, hands clasped on the tabletop. His eyes flicker to Spock’s, then away.

“As I was saying," Creighton says with a sharp clear of his throat, “if anyone feels as if they cannot be discrete and not speak of these matters beyond this door, leave now and we will find a replacement for you." In response to the tense silence of the room, Creighton nods. “Right. For matters of secrecy, not much information will be shared with you, apart from the bare minimum in order to do your work successfully. Is there anyone in the room that has had previous intel on augments?”

Spock rapidly begins to scan his shelves of information. It's a rarely used term, but it sparks _something_... 

“Augments— _superhumans_ —are descendants of Khan’s superhuman blood," Jim says. All heads turn to him. “Although not proven, it's been said that after the Eugenics Wars in the 21st century, Khan and his followers took normal humans as spouses. This resulted in half-augment, half-human children."

Creighton nods tersely. “You know your history, Lieutenant Kirk."

"It's a good thing I teach two lectures on it, then, sir," Jim parries with a humorless smile.

Creighton returns the expression. "Anything in that brain of yours about the crimes committed by those augments?” 

“Crimes pointed to Khan's superhumans and their offspring, but never proven,” Jim says. “It made them go into hiding.”

“Most _definitely_ proven, Lieutenant Kirk,” Creighton shoots back, pointing a meaty finger in Kirk’s direction. “Augments have been behind many crimes and terrorism attacks on the Federation. They’re angry, violent people and although they went into hiding, yes, they’re now making a comeback."

“You don't mean to say they’re still a bunch of Khan's superhumans running around," the blue-eyed man to Spock's left scoffs. “For goodness sakes, the superblood that Khan has would have been phased out _years_ ago!”

“Incorrect, Doctor," Creighton says. “We have intel that these augments still exist; they’ve been breeding to become bigger and stronger. Khan's blood has persisted throughout the generations."

“Seems like a fairytale," the doctor grumbles, arms crossed and sinking back into his chair. Kirk shoots him a small and indulgent grin; he surely must be acquainted with this belligerent man.

“I assure you, it’s not," Creighton snaps, “and we have intel that they are in San Francisco, infiltrating Starfleet lines, plotting yet another violent attack. They are able to blend in as normal humans; we have no way of detecting them. Doctor McCoy, that’s your task; to find out how we can track these augments based on their genetic make-up, or medical history.” Creighton turns to Spock. “Your job, Science Officer Spock, is to use your A7 computer expert classification to crack various codes we've found in our database that may be connected to the augments' plans. Lieutenant Kirk has space experience and likewise computer expertise. As with Lieutenant Edwards,” he adds, nodding to one of the women, “who has experience in espionage detections."

The other woman, unnamed as of yet, says, “And me, sir? If I can ask what my place here is?”

“Because of your linguistic skills, Lieutenant Uhura,” Creighton says. “I thought that should be obvious.”

“Not obvious, sir," Uhura says with a tightening of her lips, “when this whole meeting has been shrouded with secrecy in the first place.”

Kirk shoots her a small grin. Spock deduces that perhaps he knows this woman, too. His fingers drumming against the desk, Kirk asks, “And how do we know that any of what you’re saying is related to Khan and eugenics?"

Creighton smiles at Kirk, but it is not friendly. “Lieutenant Kirk. It is most certainly about eugenics. Think of the issues we’ve had with eugenics ideologies in the past twenty years; it’s a rising issue. The obliteration of Andorians on Pluto III, the massacre of Orion females on Gamelan IV—and, of course, the murder of 4,000 colonists on Tarsus IV.”

From Spock’s vantage point, he can see Kirk visibly tense at the names of these planets. Kirk stiffly nods. “I understand your point, sir."

Creighton waves a hand through the air. “Then you see the need to squash these ideologies before they get too far. And these augments." He stands. “This is the extent of information you’ll get for now. An encrypted file will be sent to each of your PADDs by midnight. If you choose to become part of this taskforce, accept the file and get to work."

“The financial compensation?" Lieutenant Edwards asks, as Creighton is striding through the door. “Sir,” she adds awkwardly when he glares in her direction.

Creighton pauses for a moment, surveying each person in the room. “Double your normal pay at this academy," he says. He continues his purposeful journey out of the room, the door slamming in his wake.

They sit in silence for a moment. The doctor lets out a low whistle. “That could pay for my Joanna’s tuition at her fancy new private school," he murmurs to himself.

Kirk chuckles. “She doesn’t even like that school, Bones."

The doctor shrugs.

Kirk lets out a breath; the tension seems to drain from him upon Creighton's absence. He leans forward and smiles across the table at Spock. “So, Mr. Spock, truly: are you stalking me? What are the chances we run into each other twice in one day?”

Spock straightens. “I assure you, Lieutenant Kirk, Vulcans do not engage in ‘stalking’."

“Too illogical," Kirk agrees with a nod. He tilts his head, expression softening. “Either way, it's good to see you."

Spock finds that he has to agree.

They stare at each other for a moment before a loud _harumph_ comes from the doctor. Kirk gives the doctor an irritable side-glance.

“So you're Spock, huh?" he asks. “The Vulcan Jim can't shut up about?”

Kirk sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “For God’s sake...”

“Oh," Uhura says in a light voice beside Spock, “you must be Mr. Spock!"

Spock turns to Jim, whose face has turned a deep shade of red. “I see that my fame precedes me.”

“I may have, ah." Jim clears his throat. “Mentioned you to a few friends."

“It is lovely to meet you, Mr. Spock," Uhura says, raising her hand effortlessly in the _ta’al_. " _Dif-tor heh smusma_.”

“S _ochya eh dif,"_ Spock replies, awed. “If I may compliment you on your pronunciation, Lieutenant Uhura—it is very difficult to pronounce the proper vocalic nasality in Vulcan.”

“Well, I _was_ gathered for this secretive meeting due to my linguistic abilities," Uhura replies with a quick wink. “I’ve been studying Vulcan for four years now."

“You poor thing," the doctor scoffs beside them.

“Bones,” Jim warns.

Spock turns to face the peevish doctor head-on. “An apt name, doctor, for your profession.”

“Real name is McCoy," says Doctor McCoy gruffly. “Kid gets a kick out of calling me that silly nickname.”

Kirk feigns offense, hand on his chest. “Why, Bones! I made this nickname for you out of love and affection!”

“Like hell you did."

“I apologize for him, Spock. His Southern roots unfortunately offer him no sense of politeness or decorum."

Spock fails to understand the reference, but does not inquire.

Uhura chuckles, reaching to pat the doctor on the arm. “He's an old softie underneath it all, Mr. Spock, don't you worry.”

McCoy rolls his eyes but does not push her away. Spock takes this as evidence to her words.

Jim looks about the room; Lieutenant Edwards has left, making the room empty but for their group of four. He asks, softly, “What do you three think? About this task-force?”

McCoy's mouth twists in a jagged line. “Something's fishy about it.”

Kirk nods. "Agreed. Specifically?"

“Can't put my finger on it. But I've always thought Creighton was a weasel."

Kirk sighs, shaking his head. “You can’t base everything on emotionalism, Bones.”

“The hell I can't! He makes my skin crawl."

“I believe it's odd that there aren't more departments involved," Uhura chimes in, undercutting Doctor McCoy's proclamation. “Also the fact that we all have such young careers; perhaps he is taking advantage of more naive officers to do business that’s not officially... legal?”

Jim nods, and sighs. “That’s what I was afraid of. We all have joined Starfleet rather recently, with the exception of Bones; I’m worried that he may be taking advantage of it.”

“I haven't been in Starfleet _that_ long," McCoy protests. “I haven't even gone to space yet, for pete's sake.”

Kirk's eyes catch Spock’s. “Spock? What do you think?”

“I myself think it is quite logical to put together a group of qualified people to stop any potential terrorist attack. It is a good approach, to take precaution. And verging on the paranoid, to suspect deceit from Starfleet without evidence."

"Then humor me, Spock," Jim urges. "Just play devil's advocate, for a moment. If you were to be 'paranoid', as you mentioned—what would your logic say?"

Spock sighs. Something in Kirk’s eyes compel him to give a well-thought out answer. He steeples his fingers and leans forward, elbows on the tabletop. "If I were to consider another viewpoint—then I would have pause to a few things in Creighton's talk. Firstly, the lack of intel. Apart from discussing a war we all know took place at one point, and alleged superhumans still on Earth which up to this point has been only rumors, he has given us no real new information."

“And no proof that any of this is connected to eugenics at all," Kirk adds.

“Correct. Or what violent events, or potential events, if any, are connected to it.”

Kirk snaps his fingers. “Yes! That's exactly what bothered me. Creighton has given us no proof to what these events might be—”

“—or what intel he might have gathered to prove that," Spock adds.

“And if he’s asking _you_ to look at codes, deciphering things, perhaps it means they don't have information yet.”

“So he is simply planning on something happening, rather than actual proof of an event.”

“Or it's simply a manhunt.”

“Thinly veiled as an excuse to investigate possible terrorist attacks, when Creighton is in fact looking for the whereabouts of these superhumans—”

“—who may be completely innocent.”

“Precisely."

McCoy lets out a, “What in the _hell_ , you two."

Uhura lets out a surprised laugh.

Kirk ignores them both, leaning forward excitedly to Spock. "Don't you see it, Spock? The suspiciousness in it? This is more than simple paranoia."

"I concede, Lieutenant," Spock says, waving a hand in the air. "I have seen your point."

Kirk lightly but resolutely taps the desk with his fist. “I think we should be part of this task-force; all of us. If anything, it’ll keep us close to whatever Creighton is up to."

“Agreed,” Spock says.

McCoy just stares, blinking, at the two of them. “Jim, where the hell did you find this Vulcan?"

Kirk's responding smile is blinding. “On the beach,” he says. His eyes don't leave Spock as he says it, and Spock returns the gaze with a light feeling in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for sticking with this story so far - even to the end of the "first" chapter! :) 
> 
> please let me know any feedback you might have - chapter length (I can make 'em longer during each posting if there's enough desire for it!), characterization, writing.... I'm looking for any and all! I would love to hear what you guys think.
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another."  
> -William James

It’s usually at night that Jim’s memories come. Often so well-repressed during the day, there is a night occasionally when the pot over-boils, his memories flooding into his mind.

_ Why didn’t you move? _

He still feels that bitter shaking; it seemed to have risen from deep in his bones. It feels as if it’s turning his skin inside-out. Whether he’ll be killed from the hunger, or the shock, or the consistent shaking that has locked his muscles into tight strings for hours is a gamble.

People surround him; but they don't look at him. Their eyes are glazed and faces like stone. He catches threads of voices whispering of a revolution, of an uprising. The voices sometimes pitch louder, stronger, until someone murmurs  _ food _ , and then they’re back to shuffling through the streets, poking at dirt.

He remains unmoving. Staring at the building’s doors, where he knows bodies upon bodies lie beyond. No one's cleaned them up; the stench is acrid in the air.

_ Why didn’t you move? _

Tapping, kicking, punching at his brain.  _ Move, move, move. _

But his body stays rooted to the dusty street. He doesn’t dare close his eyes, even to blink the sand from his eyes. Like the doors in front of them, horrors lie behind them: phaser shots, blood, screaming, and that insistent  _ voice _ —

_ Why didn’t you move? Move.  _ Move. MOVE—

Jim wakes with panicked gulps of air, rubbing his chest, trying to slow his rapid heart-rate. He runs a hand over his face and squints into the dark twilight of his room.

Jim can hear the insistent tapping from his nightmare; for a moment he disoriently thinks that maybe he never left it. After another hazy moment he realizes it's coming from outside his room.

He pulls on a sweatshirt and stumbles toward the front door. He knows who it is even before he pulls it open.

Uhura has her usual look of concern; a robe is pulled around her small frame. They stare at each other for a moment. She sighs. “I know Jim, I know. I promised I wouldn't do this again. But I just couldn't...”

He shakes his head and opens the door wider. “It’s all right, Nyota."

She shuffles past him. He can’t help but smile a little at her fuzzy slippers she always wears on her feet during these visits. She puts an arm on his shoulder. “Can I make you some coffee?" At his nod, she continues to the kitchen.

Jim sits on the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face. He stays silent and still, until he feels a warm mug pushed into his hand.

“I put some cinnamon in it," Nyota says as she sits on the chair opposite from him. Her hands are wrapped around her own mug. “I hope that's all right."

Jim nods and takes a scalding gulp. It jolts his senses and clears his head.

“I know it’s silly to ask," Uhura says, sitting straighter in her chair, “but would you like to talk about it?”

Jim shakes his head. “No... no, I don't think so."

“I expected that."

Jim grimaces. “Nyota, you don't have to come rushing over every time you hear..." He waves a hand uselessly in the air.

“I want to help," Uhura says firmly. “I’m not exactly a stranger to night terrors, Jim. And I know that sometimes the last thing a person wants after having them is to be alone."

“I’m sorry that I keep disturbing you," Jim sighs.

She reaches over and gives him a soft whack. “None of that. It’s not your fault that these walls are paper thin."

“I am a grown man, Nyota," Jim says, with a small grin. He can feel the echoes of his nightmare receding with every sip of coffee. “You don't have to run to my rescue every time you hear me having a nightmare.”

“Even grown men need saving sometimes," she says with a wink. Standing, she drains the rest of her coffee. “You’ll be all right?"

Jim nods. She grasps his arm again; her kind eyes linger on his. With a soft pat, she turns and leaves.

Once she's gone, Jim allows his shoulders to slump, letting out an explosive sigh. He needs to talk to Bones about the damn shouting that accompanies his dreams. With a dismissive shake of his head—he needs to get ready, get on with his day—he rises from the couch.

A grey film is cast over Jim’s day. His subsequent cups of coffee have no taste, even with an extra scoop of grounds. The sun’s rays don’t feel as warm on his skin. The sight of the beach as the tram flies past doesn’t give him the usual thrill as he remembers Spock in his long, black coat, standing against the wind.

Jim knows that McCoy can always tell, when these grey days occur; but he never mentions it. It’s probably why they’re such good friends.

“Did you accept Creighton’s offer?” McCoy asks, adjusting himself on his chair. He adds, grumbling, "Damn uncomfortable Starfleet chairs.”

Jim’s stomach drops at McCoy’s question. He takes a short, steadying breath before raising his head and cracking a grin at McCoy over his scrambled eggs. “It’s the caf’, Bones. You eat, you leave; not designed for comfort."

“Still,” McCoy grumbles. He stabs a fork into a sausage link mercilessly.

“To answer your question, yes, I did accept his offer,” Jim says. His eyes follow a group of students passing their table, chatting loudly over the din of the cafeteria. “Against my better judgment."

“The price is right, at least,” McCoy shrugs.

Jim scoffs. “It’s extravagant because he wants us to turn a blind eye to the ethics of it.”

McCoy waves his hand in the air. “You and Spock are paranoid. It’s probably just another one of Starfleet’s precautions.”

_ Spock.  _ The name sends a crackle of energy through Jim's chest. He pushes down the feeling, resolutely.

“Creighton is trying to get us to find information on these people, Bones. People that are probably innocent. It’s borderline illegal. The first assignment I got this morning is to hack into a bunch of private data pods in the area.”

McCoy asks, around a mouthful of egg, “Would you rather be precautious, Jim, or half-dead in a terrorist attack? Think about that.”

Jim raises his eyes to the ceiling, hoping to find patience there. “You’re as bad as Creighton,” he groans.

“You’re overthinking it. And if you’re not, then you can tell me that you told me so.”

“I do get satisfaction in that,” Jim says. He grins around the rim of his coffee mug. “Telling you that I ‘told you so’ is losing its luster since I’ve said it so many times in the past, though.”

“Ha, ha.” McCoy swigs his coffee before swinging his legs around the bench and standing.

In the email from Creighton that morning, sent to all members of the team, it instructed them all to work at the same time and in the same room every week as the person whose skills best match each other’s, so as to avoid any information breach. In Jim’s case, this means assisting Spock in writing a code to track and hack any pertinent private data that has been used through Starfleet’s wireless internet.

Jim and McCoy say their goodbyes as they part ways upon departing the cafeteria. Jim makes his journey toward the building his meeting is scheduled at.

He tries his best to ignore the small thrill it gives him to think of getting to spend more time with Spock.

The Vulcan absolutely fascinates him. He’s met Vulcans, in the past; all good people, generally. But Spock is different from any of them—from any human, even. Jim finds that he loves finding out what makes Spock’s eyebrow arch toward the ceiling; what makes Spock’s eyes sparkle, as if he’s about to smile while his face remains impassive.

Jim feels the greyness of his day being chased away, simply thinking about Spock.

And the greyness absolutely implodes and is replaced with a sunny disposition when Jim opens the door of the classroom, seeing Spock sitting unassumingly at a desk.

Jim tries not to be too emotive around Spock, he really does; but his face inevitably melts into a smile. “Hello, Spock,” he greets, taking the seat across from him.

Spock clasps his hands on the table in front of him. “Lieutenant Kirk.”

“It’s Jim, Spock, please.”

Spock lets out a small breath that could be classified as a sigh. “Jim.”

Jim’s smile gets wider. He mentally kicks himself. “So I guess we should get started." Pulling out his padd, he rapid-fire brings up LaTec and opens a new file for the code.

“Admiral Creighton will not be at this meeting?”

Shaking his head, Jim says, “Just us.”

“I see.”

Jim looks up. “Is that a problem?” His heart sinks as he even asks the question. It’s wholly unprofessional; Jim  _ needs  _ to get a hold of himself, stop forcing friendship on Vulcans who—

“It is not a problem in the least,” Spock quickly assures him. Jim’s runaway train of thought derails. “I expect we will be sufficiently productive with just the two of us.”

Jim runs his sweaty palms on his pant legs. “I do too, Spock,” he replies with a hopefully convincing smile. “Have you written any of the code yet?”

Head bent toward his padd, Spock nods. “Affirmative. I believe there is an error in a line of the code. I am working to rectify it."

“May I?”

Spock hesitates only a moment before handing the PADD to Jim’s open hand. Jim glances across the lines of code; it is, frankly, brilliant. So intricately oriented that the architect could easily have forgotten something as simplistic as not closing a bracket—which Jim finds, in the thirty-second line. He gently types a bracket and then attempts to run the configurations. As he hoped, it works like a charm.

“Maybe check that out,” Jim says, handing the padd back to Spock. “Can you send that code to me? It’s a brilliant framework. Exactly what we need.”

Spock blinks at the code for a long moment. “A bracket," he says, as if the thing betrayed him.

“Well, easy to miss, with all that detail you have in there. Did you do all of that in a night?”

“Affirmative. The goal was efficiency.” Spock leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the desktop as he all but glares at his code. “And accuracy.”

Jim knows that Vulcans pride themselves on their intelligence and quick work, but Spock seems genuinely upset. It’s Jim’s naturally inquisitive nature that prompts him to ask, “Did something happen? To distract you?”

Spock’s eyes sharply meet Jim’s. “I believe that if I had an answer to that question, it would be a private matter.”

Jim’s skin prickles. He holds up his hands. “Sorry, Spock. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Minutes uncomfortably tick by, of the both of them staring down at the code on their PADDs, before Spock says, “I know you did not mean to offend, Jim. I apologize.”

Jim, in turn, offers him a smile.

Clearly something  _ is  _ bothering Spock—even Jim can tell, only having had a total of three conversations with him—but Jim astutely doesn't bring it up again. They work through the remaining lines of code in mostly silence. Jim only talks when he needs to ask Spock a question clarifying an advanced equation.

Jim tries very hard not to focus on the tense line of Spock’s shoulders, or his strictly thin lips, or his slightly shaking hands as he keys inputs into his PADD. Spock is an intensely private person; Jim knows that. He’s not going to divulge to Jim his personal anxieties and worries after only knowing him for a few days.

It doesn't stop Jim from wanting desperately to ask Spock what's wrong, to see if there is any way to alleviate his strife.

It’s in the forty-eighth minute of working in each other’s presence that Jim thinks of a way.

“I am still really hesitant about what we’re doing," he blurts into the empty room.

Spock looks up. “Explain?”

“About what Creighton assigned to us. Hacking into these private data streams that students and staff trust Starfleet not to stick their nose in without cause. I don’t like it.”

Spock stares at Jim for a moment before slowly nodding. “I tend to agree."

“I know we talked about it a few days ago, but—well, if anything I feel worse.”

“I’ve searched databases," Spock says, looking almost embarrassed. “It’s against protocol, but—”

“I did too," Jim says with a grin.

“I found nothing.”

“Me neither.”

“With nothing pertaining to any possible uprisings in the area, especially not by humans with strange superpowers, I fail to see why we should be investigating them. Let alone spying on them, as it seems.”

Jim nods. “Bones—Doctor McCoy," he clarifies when Spock looks momentarily confused, “said today that it’s better to be precautionary than reactionary, should the event actually happen."

“But there’s no evidence pointing to such event.”

“That's what I said!” Jim exclaims with a tap of his fist to the desk. “Do you know what I think we should be doing?”

Spock shakes his head. “Although I am a telepath, I do not have access to your thoughts without consent.”

Rolling his eyes playfully, Jim says, “I think we should be getting to the bottom of why Creighton would  _ really  _ assign this team together. Look how fast we wrote this code! We can surely do both his assignments and our investigation.”

“It is not a wholly illogical idea.”

Jim beams. In Spock-speech, that's practically an endorsement. “Why thank you, Spock. Now my question is, where should we start in our investigation?”

Steepling his fingers, Spock positions his elbows on top of the desk, leaning forward. Jim decides to call this Spock's ‘shit is about to go down' pose.

“When trying to determine a covert enemy’s plans," Spock intones, “I find it most logical to actualize the motivations and facts of the enemy itself.”

Jim leans forward as well, arms folded. “You mean spying on Creighton, Spock," he clarifies.

Jim swears, if he looks hard enough, he can almost see an identically mischievous smile on Spock’s face in response to Jim’s. “Precisely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with this story to the end of the third chapter, everyone!
> 
> as always - would love the feedback. :)


	5. Chapter 4

* * *

By the end of their designated two hours of time together, Spock and Jim had finished and perfected their collaborative lines of code, emailed it to Creighton, and then preceded for the remaining 47% of the time to research relevant facts on Creighton's career history. If it weren't for Jim's naggingly hungry stomach, they would have probably continued well into the afternoon.

“I think we need to dig deeper," Jim says as he and Spock walk toward the student center. “On the surface, there’s no political motivations for what he’s assigning. And, what’s more, everything seems to check out on his claims: that this assignment was approved by a higher power. There has to be dirt on him out there somewhere."

“It would appear so,” Spock says. “However, if we resort to divulging into his private information and circumstances for 'dirt', as you say, then we are no better than he."

Jim sighs. “Yeah, yeah." He looks toward Spock with a smile, ready to change the subject. “So, does your commute take long to campus?”

It’s the wrong thing to say; Spock’s shoulders stiffen. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Just trying to make conversation. And because my own commute is hell. But the on-campus apartments for faculty are so confoundedly _expensive_.” He knows he’s rambling; he hates when he rambles. “Oh, but I suppose you might live in that Vulcan-designated block? I knew another Vulcan professor that lived in that area.”

Spock stiffly holds the door open for Jim as they enter the student center building. “I am in the process of changing apartments,” is all he says.

The tension is back in Spock, making the features on his face severe and stiff.Jim’s heart sinks. Spock’s retreated back into his shell.

Luckily, Bones is at the entrance of the cafeteria, interrupting any further awkwardness.

“Ten minutes late, Jim," he says good-naturedly, tapping his watch. “But I’ll let it go, since I’m in such a swell mood.”

“Bully for you, Bones," Jim says.

“You’re not even going to ask why?”

Spock narrows his eyes. “Surely it would take less time for you to simply say what it is.”

Jim suppresses a wince at Spock's sharp tone. But McCoy draws up to his full five-foot-ten height, glaring up at Spock. “Well, and here I thought that Vulcans had better patience than any of us. Or at the very least, _manners_.”

“Bones," Jim sighs. “Just—”

“If we are on the subject of manners, Doctor, perhaps you yourself need the education," Spock offers. Curiously, his tone is less severe; he’s even folding his hands behind his back as opposed to the stiff way he was carrying himself earlier.

“Listen here, mister. I don't know what crawled up your butt while hangin’ out with Jimbo here, but don't give me your bullshit Vulcan stoicism, all right? I was actually in a good mood for once in my damn life and I’ll not have you ruin it.”

“Based on your current attitude, it appears I already did.”

“Now _listen_ —”

Jim stares at the two of them, as McCoy begins an emotional tirade in Spock's direction. Spock stands there impassively, his face almost... amused? Like McCoy is a yapping puppy that is telling Spock off for stepping in his food bowl. Spock's shoulders are sloped in a more loosened pose; his once-strained facial features are now relaxed.

Spock is in a _good mood_ simply because McCoy is in a bad one.

Once he makes the realization, Jim can't help but let out a laugh. The two turn their heads to look at him.

“What the hell, Jim?” McCoy barks.

Jim laughs louder; revels in how wonderful to feel. Putting an arm around McCoy's shoulders, he steers him toward the cafeteria. “Time for lunch, Bones. I think you're getting what the youths refer to as ‘hangry’." Jim looks over his shoulder at Spock. “Join us for lunch, Spock?”

“Vulcans do not require as much sustenance as humans," is Spock's reply, bringing forth an indignant scoff from McCoy.

“So that’s a yes?" Jim asks. He throws a cheeky grin at Spock for good measure.

Spock looks, again, like he’s fighting a smile as he follows Jim into the cafeteria.

McCoy intercepts him as Jim is getting a chicken sandwich from the hot bar. “So, how did it go with Spock?" he asks, gesturing not-so-subtly over his shoulder at Spock (who is taking a painstaking amount of time to choose a flavor of tea). “He’s kind of a stick in the mud, isn't he?”

“I find him delightful to work with," Jim replies with a wide smile. “You just can't get along with anybody.”

McCoy narrows his eyes at Jim. “Uh-huh."

“Seriously, Bones, it was fine.” Jim gives a quick glance around them before leaning his head toward McCoy’s. “We decided to look into Creighton a bit more."

“Do you really think that's wise?” McCoy asks. “He seems like a fellow you don’t mess with."

“That’s precisely why we’re trying to figure out what he’s up to, Bones."

McCoy raises his hands in defeat. “Right, it's your call. Just let it be known that I’m not part of the mutiny.”

“I’ll alert the presses," Jim says distractedly.  He's already focused on trying to find a quiet table amongst the crowd of students. McCoy scoffs and follows.

Jim asks McCoy about his biomedical lab to change the subject; it puts McCoy on a rant for a while. Jim sometimes thinks that McCoy lives to simply complain about everything he sees, and somehow finds pleasure doing so. Spock later joins them, sipping occasionally at a cup of tea. Apart from the occasional jab at McCoy or thoughtful answers to Jim's questions about how Spock's semester is going, he's a silent observer.

Their conversation is interrupted when Jim hears a, “Professor Kirk?”

He turns to Lily, a quiet student from his Advanced Tactical Training lecture. “Hello, Cadet Lanier," he says. He adds a reassuring smile when she stands there, fumbling awkwardly at the hem of her uniform.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch," she says. Her eyes to flicker to Spock. It seems to increase her awkwardness. “Oh, uh, hi, Professor Spock.”

Spock nods his head. “Cadet Lanier.”

“It’s fine,” Jim says, waving a hand. “Is there something you need?”

“Well... I went to your office, to ask you a clarification about your lecture last Monday, but you weren’t there.”

Jim blinks. “No, I was in a meeting. But if you email me we can set up an appointment.”

Lily stands there for a moment longer. It seems as if she's about to say something else. Jim likes to think that he can read people rather well, and there’s an uncomfortableness in her posture that extends beyond trying to track him down for class. In the end, she nods, saying softly, “Okay. I will do that. Sorry to interrupt."

“Like I said, not a problem." Jim looks thoughtfully at her retreating back. McCoy's grin greets him when he looks back at his companions at the table. “What?” he asks the doctor.

“Oh, nothin’," McCoy drawls. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking up at the ceiling. “Just observing the effect you have on all these poor cadets. You really should try to tone it down; they’re just innocent kids.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?" Jim asks.

“You can't be _that_ blind, Jim. You know the effect you have on women.”

“That's inappropriate, Bones. She's a cadet."

“And you're fresh out of the academy yourself! You can't be, what, five years older than her?” McCoy jabs an elbow in Jim's side. “Might want to watch those eyes of yours if you're going to deny it, Jimmy.”

Jim can feel his face heat when he realizes what it must have looked like, staring at Lily for that long as she left. He catches a glance at Spock, who is staring resolutely at his empty mug.

“Bones," Jim says, a warning in his voice. “You're being inappropriate. We're professors.”

“Status never stopped the romantic in you, Jim," McCoy says with a laugh. “You’re going to act high and mighty now?"

Maybe it's the nightmare he woke up from that morning. Maybe it’s the fact that Spock is probably silently judging Jim from across the table, and the last thing Jim wants is for Spock to get the wrong idea about him (or, worse, the right one). Maybe it's the fact that McCoy is bringing up... past heartbreaks. Maybe it's everything, all of those reasons. Whatever it is, it causes Jim to slam his fist on the table and snap, “I said shut up, Bones!”

McCoy blinks at him for a moment before his face creases into a glare. "Well, then.” Spock even has the decency to look a little surprised at Jim's behavior.

Jim rubs at his temples, a sigh deflating the anger from his body. “Bones, I’m sorry. I didn't get much sleep—and I just—” He stops and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He had avoided it for most of the day, that vice-like grip on his stomach, up until this moment.

There's a silence before McCoy pats his shoulder. “It's all right. You're right, Jim. I was being inappropriate.”

Jim glances at his friend, giving him a wry and grateful smile. “Thank you." His eyes flicker down to his chicken sandwich; it looks thoroughly unappetizing. “I’m going to see if I can box this up for later. I have a class."

McCoy nods. “Get some sleep tonight, eh, Jim?”

“I’ll try." Jim stands, turning to Spock. “Sorry about my behavior, Spock. As you know, McCoy likes to grind people's gears. But it's not an excuse.”

Spock looks surprised at the apology, or at being addressed at all. “It is no trouble, Lieutenant Kirk.”

Back to the titles. Wonderful. Jim winces, but tries to turn it into a smile. “I hope you have a good rest of the day."

“Likewise," Spock says with a nod.

Jim leaves it at that. He looks for a box at the canteen line, but there is none. He stares at his tray, teetering its contents above the gaping mouth of the garbage can. It would make sense to throw it away, with his twisting stomach.

After a few moments of thought, he grabs his chicken sandwich and stuffs the rest of its contents into his mouth, barely avoiding choking on it as he swallows it whole. He can feel it as an uncomfortable, painful lump in his stomach.

He leaves the cafeteria quickly, tray deposited haphazardly across the stack of the rest of them, not even wanting to know if Bones was watching.

 

* * *

It’s raining when Jim is finally able to leave the academy. If not for having the presence of mind to check the forecast before leaving his apartment that day, he would have been soaked in seconds. Pushing his umbrella open, he steps onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a pair of students running past to get out of the rain.

He walks unhurriedly toward the train station. His subway doesn't leave for another hour. It’s a downfall to teaching a night class: the inconsistent commute schedule past seven o’clock.

His relaxed walk, unfortunately, gives him time to reflect on the day: on his outburst at McCoy, which he's apologized for through comms twice since that afternoon.

How Spock's lips twisted disapproval during McCoy teasing Jim' about his promiscuity.

How Jim only really felt aligned, and comfortable, when he was working with Spock on their data code assignment.

His nightmares the night before.

Jim having to excuse himself in the middle of his lecture to throw up that damn chicken sandwich.

Jim is about to pull out his padd from his messenger bag, rain be damned, he needs _something_ to distract him, when he sees a familiar figure sitting hunched over on a bench.

Spock's face is lit up eerily from the light of the padd on his lap. His head is bent toward it as his finger taps against the screen. He is oblivious to Jim's apparoch. As Jim walks closer, he can see an umbrella is resting against Spock's shoulder, doing a poor job at keeping the Vulcan fully dry in the torrential rain. His cane is propped up against a small suitcase, getting equally soaked.

Jim stops in front of him. “Spock?”

Spock looks up. He looks momentarily embarrassed. “Jim."

Jim would smile at the use of his name, if he wasn't so concerned about the current situation. At the very least, it gives him a warmth that drives away the rain's chill “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing. And raining!” he adds with a gesture at the obvious weather conditions.

“I am... researching," Spock says primly.

“Outside—in the rain?”

“Affirmative.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Spock’s expression challenges Jim to say anything.

Jim, as usual, recklessley rises to the challenge. “Spock," Jim says, “do you mind explaining why aren't you home? I thought I remember you saying your last lecture today was at four-o-clock.”

Spock’s face goes impassively blank. “I am well within my rights to spend my time in what way I think is logical.”

“And it's logical to sit in the rain in the middle of a cold spring, getting your padd—not to mention yourself—wet?”

Spock raises his chin. “Not all actions are outwardly logical."

Jim sighs. He sits on the bench next to Spock; his pants immediately soak in the rain. He ignores it. “Spock, I want you to be candid with me for a moment."

Spock looks suspicious and says nothing.

Taking a breath, knowing full well he might be inviting the wrath of a Vulcan in, Jim asks, “Is there something wrong with your living situation?" At Spock's twitch in facial features, Jim says hurriedly, “I only ask because of the clues I’ve gathered. You seemed really put-out when I asked where you lived, and throughout the day you've been getting a lot of emails on your padd that every time you look at them, it seems like you're going to throw it across the room." Jim offers a lame, apologetic smile when Spock finally meets his eyes. “Just trying to help. If... if you want it."

For a moment, Spock looks like he’s going to stand and leave Jim with his broken heart in his hands. But then his back relaxes with a barely imperceptible intake of breath. “You are correct," he says defeatedly. “There has been... complications in my living situation.”

“Well, I didn't want to be right, Spock. But thank you for telling me."

His fingers are shaking—likely from the cold—as Spock turns off his padd and puts it under his coat for protection. He says, after a steadying breath, “Up until this week, I have been living in the Vulcan-designated apartment block on campus. I was assigned to the apartment upon my arrival to teach at the academy. The cost of renting this particular apartment is.... quite high, but it was assumed that I could pay the price." Spock spares a glance at Jim. “I do not wish to explain why.”

Jim nods assuredly. “I won't ask you to.”

“Recently, my savings has depleted, and my current salary is unable to maintain the apartment. I have been evicted.”

Jim whistles lowly. “Wow, Spock—that's awful. I’m so sorry.”

Straightening his spine, Spock declares, “Vulcans do not feel shame.”

“Of course not," Jim says. “You are, obviously, completely impervious to any conflicting emotions that may arise in this situation."

That earns Jim an indignantly raised eyebrow from Spock, who is fully aware when he is being teased. Jim sobers his expression. “In all honestly, Spock—that truly is a messy situation. Why, I've been having living issues myself, recently.”

Spock asks, "Indeed?”

“Indeed." Jim feels his mind brighten with an idea. “I was supposed to have a roommate, you know; it was all arranged for us to live on an affordable off-campus apartment when I got here a month ago. Affordable if the both of us are living in the apartment, of course.”

“Of course."

“But, he never showed up. So I’m out of a roommate, and I’m left to foot the bill all by myself. Which is a bit of a predicament." Jim doesn't mention that with the commendations from the whole _Farragut_ debacle, he could easily pay that rent and more.

“It appears to be," Spock says, slowly.

“So, if you'd like, Spock... well, I think we can help each other out. If you’re amenable to the suggestion, that is."

If Spock has caught on to Jim's plan, and has seen right through him, he hasn't indicated so. Folding his hands in his lap, he asks, “Are you suggesting that I become your second roommate?”

“I am."

“And if I might ask... the rent price per person?”

“Four hundred credits,” Jim lies.

“A week?”

“A month.”

Spock's eyebrows practically shoots to the sky. “Surely this is not possible. Do you perhaps live in a cardboard box, as the colloquial phrase goes?”

Jim laughs at, once again, Spock's unexpected humor. “No, no; just found a great deal. Think you can afford that?”

Narrowing his eyes, Spock says, “It is... a possibility."

Before Spock had put away his padd, Jim caught sight of a listing of hotels in the area. Spock clearly is homeless as of the immediate moment. It's this knowledge that prompts Jim to say, “How about this: don't commit to anything until you see it. Better yet, sleep there tonight and take a test run, then decide. It came furnished so no need to even move in furniture.”

“My apartment was also furnished," Spock says.

“Perfect. See how easy this would be?" Jim stands, holding out a hand. “What do you say, Spock?”

Spock hesitates for a moment. He licks his dry lips, staring down at his lap; then at the suitcase to his side. Holding out his own hand, he takes Jim's offered arm for support as he rises to his feet. He grabs his cane and positions it in front of himself.

“I will 'test run’ your apartment, as you said, for tonight. Then I will have the facts to make my decision." Spock hesitantly smooths the front of his jacket; a gesture that makes him seem unsure. “If this is still acceptable."

Jim beams and shakes his head affectionately. “Of course it's acceptable, Spock." Without asking for permission, because he knows what will happen (Spock will get Vulcan-stoic and refuse), Jim grabs Spock's suitcase. Pulling it behind him, Jim says, “Now, c’mon; we don't want to miss the subway."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for your patience on my posting! grad school is kicking my butt and I'm working on a WIP in another fandom, too. but, the semester is ending, so by next week I'll be able to work on more writing! hurray!
> 
> please let me know what you think<3


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